As a rule, I don’t like posting parts of unfinished stories. I feel that doing so is unfair to the reader. You get to an interesting place in the plot, you are dying to find out what happens next…and it can be months before the new scene is written (if ever). By which time you have pretty much lost interest in whatever was going on.

Despite that, given how some of you have been dropping hints about needing more femfanfic from me, I’ve decided to post a few stories that I believe can stand alone, although they will eventually be incorporated into Millenium Dreams – Lost Lover’s Waltz.

Depsite being titled Dream Sequences, the following three stories are not dreams the characters are having. Millenium Dreams takes its title from the hopes and aspirations some of the characters have in my fic, as they move into the first few years of the new millenium. This is planned as a series of tales which will finish the story arc started in All Too Human. The Sequences are part of the initial story.

I hope this will tide you over until we are ready for that first dance…

Dream Sequence I – Bitter Passion

by
Margot Le Faye

Disclaimer: As ever, I don’t own the copyright, Joss Whedon, the WB and Mutant Enemy do. This is just fanfic, no infringement intended.

Warning: NC-17 and then some. Not intended for anyone under 18, 21 in some states

Content: C’mon. Did you really think that, after he drew her picture and caressed her face as she slept, Angelus would tamely walk away from Buffy’s bed? Not!

***************

Time: Set during the ep Passion

He watched her from across the room, as she smiled and danced with Xander. He felt rage mount within him. How dare she remember laughter? How dare she smile? How dare she forget, for even a moment, that she had released him, and that he worked his will on the town?

How dare she forget she belonged to him?

Passion opened it's jaws and howled within him. Angelus decided Buffy needed a reminder.

Afterward, back in her room, Buffy stood at the window for several moments, a current of unease seeming to tingle just at the edge of her awareness. Was something out there? But things remained quiet and she put her wariness down to over-excitement. Out dancing with her friends, Buffy had enjoyed herself for the first time in weeks. For the first time in weeks she had been able to forget...

Except that she couldn't. Not really. Buffy acknowledged the truth to herself, then resolutely turned away from the window, unzipping her dress and heading toward her closet to change for the night, unaware that the object of her sad musings watched from the other side of her window.

Angelus saw her slip beneath the covers and shut the light, settling beneath her quilt. He smiled, knowing that even her keen Slayer's senses could not detect the danger he represented.

Because she still loved her lost Angel too much for her subconscious to sense that Angelus represented a danger at all.

He was patient. And he had all night. He waited until he was certain she slept deeply, then quietly lifted the window, entering her room with silent stealth, as she so often did herself. With infinite care, Angelus settled on her bed, not disturbing her slumber, withdrew the artist's tools he had thrust hurriedly into his coat pocket, and began to sketch her as she slept.

It didn't take long for him to capture her likeness; he had always had a deft hand and a sure eye. He reached out to lightly graze his knuckles over her cheek, still without waking her. So beautiful, he thought.

So faithless, passion whispered. He decided the portrait wasn't enough of a reminder.

Angelus moved off the bed quietly enough not to disturb her, and backed away. In the corner of her room, he swiftly disrobed, then pulled his belt free of his discarded leather pants. Smiling, he approached her bed again. This part would take skill.

Coaxing her arms from beneath the covers slowly, gently, so that she did not awaken required patience. He had that in abundance. It took him half an hour, but eventually, her arms were drawn over her head, the wrists fastened together by his belt, and the belt anchored to the headboard of her bed. Pleased by his success, Angelus retreated to the far side of the bed, where he had sat sketching her portrait. Now, however, he lifted the quilt and slid, still silent, still stealthy, beneath the covers until he lay beside her.

And it was then that he let his mouth cover hers, even as he moved to cover her body, and awakened her with a kiss.

Part of her knew she was dreaming. It had been the same dream almost every night. Angle, in a black silk shirt, reaching for her, calling her name. And as she walked so willingly into his arms, his face vamped out and he laughed at her, dipping his head not toward her vulnerable throat, but so that his fanged mouth crushed against her lips for one brief moment before he threw her from him, and stalked away.

Except tonight, when his mouth was upon hers, she did not feel the bruising force of his fangs, but the tender softness of his lips against hers, as it used to be. As it had been the night they made love.

He felt her responsiveness, first. Still sleeping, her unconscious mind recognized only that a familiar, beloved mouth took hers, that familiar, beloved flesh pressed against hers. So for the first moment, her lips on his were soft, sweet.

And then she came fully awake and he felt her stiffen, felt the air pulled into her lungs to scream, her muscles tensing to fight. Smiling, he slipped his hand between their mouths, breaking the kiss, keeping her from screaming.

"If your mother comes into this room," he said tenderly, gazing down into her wild, brown-green eyes. "I'll rip her head off before you can free yourself from that belt."

Buffy went instantly still beneath him, the air drawn to scream expelled in a shuddering gasp, her expressive eyes locking gazes with his. He could see the despair in her eyes, as she realized that she didn't dare fight him. He knew that she expected him to kill her, that she was willing to let him if it meant protecting someone she loved. Her despair, her helplessness, aroused him further.

Assured of her acquiescence, he removed his hand from her mouth, and bent to take her lips again. They were soft, pliant beneath his own, and he forced them open, allowing his tongue to plunge into the sweet wet cavern of her mouth. She resisted, for a moment. But only for a moment. Because he was still Angel. And so she yielded to his desire.

For one moment, awakening, she had thought he had come back to her. His face was the face of her beloved, not the demon who had slaughtered him. But then she realized that it was merely a mask, and that her lover's murderer was holding her in his arms. Everything in her rebelled at that violation, and her body reflexively prepared for battle. But she discovered instantly that her hands were bound, and before she could try to fight free, he had uttered his calm, vicious, appalling threat. She had known that he would indeed make good on it, and that she would not be able to stop him in time. So she went still.

But when he kissed her, it wasn't the brutal, brief kiss he had forced on her before, in the school, when he had revealed himself to her. It wasn't the kiss that turned her dreams, each night, to nightmares. His mouth against hers was the mouth she remembered, the mouth of the man she loved, kissing her the way she craved. Aching with need, knowing the deception but incapable of resisting it, she felt herself yield.

Maybe it was time, he thought. But no. She was still only reacting to the perceived danger to others. Until he had threatened her mother, she had fought him. If he made her a vamp now, she would undoubtedly stay with him for a while, perhaps centuries. But she would be strong enough to leave him whenever she wished.

And that was the one thing Angelus found intolerable; the idea that Buffy would ever, could ever, leave him.

He would never let her. She would learn that. Starting now, she would learn. He lifted his mouth from hers, to look down into her face. Her eyes were wide green pools, her full mouth trembling. Her skin was pale and cool and translucent. She was lovely, so lovely. Tragedy became her. She wore sorrow like a silk gown; a garment fitted to her body, one which enhanced her own beauty.

He smiled gently down at her.

"You're going to be quiet, my love, aren't you?" he whispered. "Because you don't want anything to happen to Joyce."

She nodded her head.

"And because you want what's going to happen to you," he added cruelly. The anger that flared in her eyes displeased him, as did the renewed coiling tension he felt as her body prepared for battle. "Don't," he warned coldly. She didn't want to obey him. He could feel that. But he was implacable, and for the moment, he had the upper hand. So he waited, and in a very few minutes, she shuddered and settled down again. Her eyelids swept downward as if she could no longer bear to face him. His good mood returned.

Buffy's heart was breaking, all over again. She knew why the demon in her lover's body kept himself from vamping out. He wanted her to believe there was no distinction between Angel and Angelus. That the demon was the truth, and the soul an illusion. He was naked and aroused. She understood he meant to take her. And that he meant her to remember the face of her lover violating her. Angelus intended to corrupt her memory of the one pure, sweet moment of passion she had shared with Angel, by replacing it with the memory of Angel forcing her. Her own memory was already tainted by the price Angel had paid for her insistent passion; the loss of his soul. The only thing she could cling to was the knowledge that Angel's love for her had been as absolute as her own for him. If Angelus succeeded in corrupting the tiny bit of her that recalled the sweetness of their love, it would be more than she could bear. She would be broken. She didn't dare let him succeed.

Raising himself on one arm, Angelus used the opposite hand to undo the buttons on her satin sleep shirt. He took his time about it, not needing to hurry. His smile widened as the fist tear slipped from beneath the lids of her closed eyes. It was only a little past midnight, hours before dawn, hours before Joyce would wake to get her small family ready for the coming day. There was no need to rush the job of baring her flesh for his view, his touch, his taste, his pleasure.

And he did take pleasure in her. Not the pathetic, yearning pleasure he had experienced when his soul was with him. Not like the maudlin desire he had been subjected to when he had been contaminated by that soul's love. This was the pleasure of power and lust and domination. Angelus craved Buffy's fear and her sorrow, he craved her submission and her yielding. He craved her beautiful flesh and he was determined that someday he would claim her as his eternal mate. Then, when her battle skills and beauty were allied to the immortal strength she would gain from his demon blood, when he made her twice the weapon for evil she had ever been for good, his ultimate goals would be realized. With Buffy at his side, his consort and willing slave, he would rule the world.

But for tonight, he simply wanted to rule Buffy. He pulled the edges of her unbuttoned sleep shirt aside, letting his eyes feast on the perfection of her beautifully curved body. Her breasts were exquisitely formed, perfect hemispheres, that filled his large, open hands as if designed specifically to fit them. He squeezed them gently, eliciting another shiver from his unwilling partner.

"What's the matter, lover?" he taunted, voice low. "I thought you liked that."

"You aren't Angel," she whispered bitterly, her eye, still awash with tears, opening to meet his. She had to hold onto that, the fact that the demon forcing her was not her beloved. She had to keep that distinction. Angel wasn't here; his soul was floating in the aether, and he was not responsible for the demon's actions. It wasn't Angel who was hurting her. It wasn't Angel who threatened her mother's life. It wasn't Angel taking her against her will. It was only a demon wearing his flesh.

Only a demon touching her, kissing her, taking her, the way only Angel ever had before.

"Oh, but I am Angel," he assured her. "I am as much of Angel as you will ever have again." He dipped his head to take her mouth in another brutally tender kiss. As he did, his hands moved from her breasts down across her belly to her waist. He set his fingers inside the waist band of her shorts and began to tug them down. He raised his mouth from hers briefly. "Lift you hips," he demanded. Her eyes mutinous, she obeyed. He pulled the shorts down her long, supple legs, past her ankles and feet, tossing the garment to the floor beside the bed.

Angelus knelt at her feet, his eyes traveling up the remembered territory of her naked flesh. Buffy Summers was incomparably beautiful; tiny, perfect, deadly. And at the moment, utterly helpless. Watching him look at her, Buffy flushed and lowered her lids over her eyes once more. Angelus smiled again, admiring the rosy tint the blush added to her skin. He stretched out over her, settling between her thighs, using his hips to part them more fully, to allow him access to her trembling body. The head of his cock brushed against the entrance to her intimate core, and he realized that she trembled not from desire but from fear, and perhaps, despair. Which only made things so much better for him.

"Reluctant, lover?" he mocked. "That's not like you. Not like you with me, anyway. What happened to 'I'll die if you don't?'"

Buffy's eyes flew open at that, remembering the words she had said to Angel when she had given him her virginity. Angel had wanted to be cautious, had been willing to wait. It was Buffy who had needed him to make love to her, Buffy who had pressed matters.

Buffy who was responsible for the act that had cost him his soul.

Looking into Angelus' eyes, Buffy knew her own revealed the depth of grief that memory held for her. She could tell Angelus relished the pain he knew the memory caused her. And then he began to ease himself into her, and she shivered because he wasn't her Angel, and she was dry and tight, and it was difficult. Her lack of response renewed his anger.

"I'm glad you remember how much you need me," he said coldly. "Because you forgot tonight." he forced himself deeper inside her. She struggled not to show him how much he was hurting her, but he was too attuned to her to be fooled. His anger was somewhat mollified. He thrust slowly forward, stretching her unwilling flesh until a whimper she could not suppress escaped her.

"Yes," he said, in satisfaction. If she would not yield, he would hurt her even more. Either she would acknowledge she was his, or he would inflict intimate pain upon her. Either she would never be unfaithful to him because he eclipsed all others, or because the act of love would become distasteful to her. But one way or another, he would see to it that Buffy Summer's never shared her bed with anyone but him.

"Did you think I wouldn't see you, tonight?" he demanded as he edged inside deeper. He was finally seated to the hilt, and she sobbed at the pain of his invasion. Buffy felt as if she were being ripped apart. He was too big, she was too frightened, this was too excruciating. But she needed not to scream, not to wake her mother, not to call her to her death. Angelus could sense her fear, her despair. He groaned in satisfaction, then took her mouth in another devouring kiss. "Did you think you could dance with that boy and that I would let you?" he demanded of her between kisses. "Did you think that I would ever let you be with anyone but me?" He pulled slowly back, then thrust deeply. He caught her agonized cry against his mouth. He growled and deepened the kiss.

Buffy was shocked at how much Anglus was hurting her. His body was Angel's body, and with Angel, there had been only the briefest discomfort when he breached her. Angel had taken her so gently, so tenderly, with so much love and reverence there had been no question of pain. But Angelus seemed at once to be enraged that she wasn't yielding to him, and delighted at the agony her refusal to yield cost her. She realized he could injure her, but she hurt too much to think how to stop him.

And then his fingers brushed gently against her most intimate flesh in a caress she remembered too dearly, and she understood that this was one battle she could not hope to win.

It was good. Being inside her reluctant, tight heat was so good. But if he could make her yield despite herself, it would be even better. Angelus stopped thrusting, and shifted slightly, moving his hand between their bodies. Delicately he began to stroke the tender pearl of flesh between her thighs. His mouth moved from hers, and trailed down her neck to her breasts, in precisely the manner that had moved her so when Angel had done it. Her soft cry was one of heartbreak. His smile deepened, and he touched her the way Angel had, tasted her the way Angel had, took her the way Angel had.

Buffy wondered if she were dead already and this was hell. Because it was unbearable torment to feel what her lover had made her feel at the hands of her lover's murderer. Buffy didn't want to yield to Angelus, but he was infinitely patient, infinitely determined.

And the final, bitter truth was that though the demon ravishing her was not her beloved, it was and had been a part of her beloved. Buffy simply didn't have the strength to keep fighting. And when she opened her eyes, and looked at him, she saw her lover's face smiling tenderly into her own. Knowing that she had lost, Buffy looked into his eyes.

The difference was there. She clung to it. There was no love, or tenderness in Angelus' eyes; only chill, soulless triumph. Even as her body responded to the echo of her lover's touch, she held onto the fact that this wasn't her lover.

Ultimately, Angelus felt the surging rush of moisture inside her, and he began to move again, his way easier now that she was wet and pliant. Now, when he kissed her, she kissed him back, when he thrust, she met him, when she trembled, it was with desire, and her cries were those of pleasure not pain.

He smiled in masculine satisfaction against her mouth, kept kissing her until she was breathless. He released her to say, "That's right, Buff. You're mine. You're body knows that. And you won't forget it again." He began to increase his pace, building the pressure inside her. "You belong to me, Buffy Summers. Every virgin, and not so virgin, inch of you, is mine." He could see the confusion in her eyes. But the night was long, and she would soon learn his meaning. "Mine," he said again, stroking deeper, harder. "Mine." It became a litany, and he began to repeat it over and over, in time to his thrusts inside her body. Buffy began weeping again, but she matched him flawlessly. He groaned as her inner core began to tighten around him, signaling her approaching climax. "Mine," he repeated a final time, and claimed her mouth once more, thrusting his tongue in to mate with hers even as he thrust more violently inside her straining sheath.

He felt the tension inside her as her muscles clasped around him ever more tightly, as her hips rose to his ever more urgently. He felt it build and he felt it peak, felt her lose control and tighten in helpless pleasure around him, her body arching closer to his, her kisses as devouring as his own. And he felt the tears streaming down her cheeks and past their joined mouths, and these proofs of her need and her despair, exquisitely combined, were the final cap on his own pleasure, so that he joined her in rapture. He spilled himself, flooding her heated depths with his cold seed.

Spent and exhausted, Buffy lay quiet beneath him. She wondered if he would kill her now. Wondered if it would matter. He was still inside her, still possessing her, even though he was sated. His weight crushed down on her. And all she could think was how deeply she had craved this very weight pressing down upon her, how deeply she had missed being in Angel's arms. He raised his head, and looked down at her, smiling with the self-satisfaction of a male animal assured of its prowess.

"Have you remembered?" he demanded softly. "Whose are you, Buff?"

Angel's, she thought, but she had no wish to die tonight, after all. "Yours," she said, and it wasn't really a lie, was it? As long as Angelus 'lived' she would be unable to put her past with Angel away.

Pleased by her seeming submission, Angelus kissed her gently again. And then he moved down her body as Angel had, when he had prepared her for their first, their only, joining. And she felt his mouth on her intimate flesh exactly the way Angel had placed his mouth on her, and his tongue found the same patterns, his fingers the same rhythm. But he was, after all, a demon, and there were differences.

He brought her, resist though she would, to pleasure. Her body surged against his mouth and she was weeping in despair because she hated him so much and what he did to her felt so good.

And then there was a shocking moment of pain as his fangs sank into the tender, intimate pearl they had so lovingly caressed moments before. Then, more shockingly yet, the pain turned to searing, appalling pleasure, as her blood was drawn out of her body and into his mouth, her orgasm incredibly intensified. Buffy moaned, wanting to deny what was happening, utterly unable to. Her hips lifted to her ravisher's mouth, as her body offered itself more fully to him. Angelus growled in satisfaction, and sucked more avidly on her vulnerable flesh. Buffy felt herself dissolving, losing the ability to think. She was drawn into a vortex of sensation that thrummed through her body, singing along every nerve. She shattered for Angelus, utterly defeated, and when darkness descended upon her, she welcomed it.

Buffy had gone unconscious with the pleasure he had given her, and Angelus was pleased. Her blood on his tongue, combined with the taste of her feminine core, of her completion, was the sweetest savor he had ever known. It was so tempting to keep drinking from her, to drain her of every delicious drop, but that would only defeat his greater purpose. Angelus forced himself to retract his fangs, to lick the tiny wounds closed, to leave her alive.

He smiled down at her unmoving form, and bent to his belt. He quickly unfastened it from the headboard, then checked to make sure her wrists were still tightly bound. He shifted her body so that her head was by the open end of the bed, then grabbed the pillows, lifting her head almost tenderly, so that he could slip one beneath her. He pulled her into his arms, her bound hands resting against his breast, drew the quilt over them, and waited for her to wake up.

Buffy was warm, and held tenderly, her body languorous with satiation. Again, for the first moment when she woke, it was as if her beloved had returned to her, for she was in Angel's arms and he was smiling down at her. But memory returned, and she knew the smile for the harbinger of pain that it was.

"You've won," she said softly. Everything between them this night had been quiet, if violent. She was terrified of waking her mother, of her mother coming in and finding them. And dying. So when she spoke, her voice was low. But it was forceful, for all that. "You know I'm yours. You know I won't forget again. What more do you want from me?"

"You are so naive," he said with a cruel laugh, as quietly as she. His hands stroked up against her body, and Buffy blushed as her breasts stiffened, the nipples becoming taught peaks. He smiled, realizing her discomfiture, and began to tease each peak with his deft fingers. "I should have done a better job with you when you let me take you the first time. Then again, it's never too late to learn."

"Learn what?" she asked uneasily, shivering at the feel of his hands on her breasts.

"Learn what I want from you, Buff. You didn't think that was it, did you? A quick fuck, a quick suck and we're done? No, no, no baby. I'm good for hours yet. We still have a long way to go before dawn." He twisted her nipples almost enough to hurt, and Buffy gasped, pressing her breasts into his hands, to ease the tormenting pressure. He chuckled, pleased by her response.

"The fact is, Buff, that I didn't do a thorough job when I took your virginity. You're still too much of a virgin for my peace of mind. I think it's time I finished things."

"I don't understand," she said, becoming frightened. By finishing things, did he mean he was going to kill her tonight?

"I know you don't. I love the fact that you don't. Because it's going to be so good for me when you find out." Still smiling, he stopped tormenting her breasts and traced his fingers instead over the curve of her lips. His index finger pressed lightly, and sensing what he demanded, Buffy opened her mouth, allowing him to slide the tip inside. Obediently she closed her lips around him, and sucked the cool flesh. His smile broadened.

"Good girl. See? I knew you'd be a quick learner. You're a virgin here, Buff. You liked it when I put my mouth on you, but you haven't returned the favor. You will, tonight." Buffy's eyes grew huge, even though he withdrew his finger from her mouth. She had heard about this act, and if Angel had asked her to perform it, she wouldn't have hesitated. Truthfully, he wouldn't have had to ask. She would have done it simply because she loved him, and she wanted to express her love in every way open to her. But the idea of giving Angelus that pleasure was appalling. She wasn't sure she could. But she was certain she had no choice.

Angelus watched the play of emotions across her face as his meaning came clear to her. She was still reluctant. And still unable to fight him. That alone made him hard and avid for her. Angelus reached down, and lifted her upper leg, draping it over his hip, leaving her open and vulnerable to his touch. He slipped his index finger, lubricated with her own saliva, between their bodies, and into her tight sheath. She was still deliciously wet, soaked with two completions of her own, and with the seed he had poured into her. Her inner muscles tightened around his finger, and he knew he could force her to come again, right now, if he wanted to, knew that she would find that humiliating, after what he had just told her he planned to make her do. That was in her eyes as well.

Angelus was enjoying himself hugely. But he hadn't humiliated her quite enough. The memory of her dancing with Xander still rankled. So he slid his finger out of her and traced lower, finding another, tighter, smaller entrance into her body, and gently, against her sudden, shocked understanding, he probed inside.

"That's right baby. You're virgin here as well. But not for long." He took her mouth then, before she could protest, and forced his finger as deeply inside as he could reach. She whimpered a little against his mouth, from the discomfort he caused her. But he could feel the flooding wetness of her body against his thigh, and knew he could make her feel pleasure from that act as well. That was definitely going to be the best. And he was going to have to save the best for last.

Buffy was in torment. Angelus was making her body respond to him as if he were Angel, making her crave the physical release he could offer her. He had been right; he was as much of Angel as she might ever have again and Oh! she desperately needed Angel. It would be so easy to pretend...

When Angelus shifted on the bed, turning so that his pelvis was by her head, and his rampant cock was before her, she understood that pretending might not only be easy, it might be necessary. She had to survive this, and that meant doing what he demanded. And the only way she could bear to do what he demanded was if she were doing this not for Angelus, but for Angel.

The demon who had violated her bed reached for her hips, pulling her towards his own mouth, and began to kiss her intimate flesh the way he had before. Buffy moaned as another surge of wetness flooded her. Oh yes, it was achingly easy to pretend that she was being made love to her by her lover, not ravished by his murderer. Tentatively, Buffy bent her neck forward, and hesitantly pressed her lips to the cold, rampant flesh. Buffy closed her eyes, discovering the way Angel felt against her mouth; cold, smooth, velvety soft, yet iron hard. She let her tongue slip over the head, discovering how Angel tasted; the slight saltiness, an underlying bitter tang that merely heightened the savor. Angelus growled appreciatively against her clit. Buffy continued her exploration, licking down the long, thick shaft, bringing her bound hands up to caress his balls. He seemed to like that, as well, although the belt restricted what she could do. Angel would have liked what she did, and with Angel she would have done more. With Angelus, she accepted the limits and restraints, and did not try to go beyond them.

She was an apt pupil, he thought, as he caressed her vulnerable clit with his tongue, feeling her flesh tremble and yield to him. Virginal or not, she used her mouth adeptly, cleverly, seeming to know instinctively what would feel good to him.

Or to her Angel. Angelus didn't particularly care if she fantasized that she was with her lost love, not now. The pleasure she gave him was too intense for that. And her ultimate grief when he forced her to realize just who and what was taking her would be all the sweeter the more she denied him now. Angelus let his tongue slip down her cleft and into the tight, damp passage of her femininity. She groaned against his cock, and he slipped deeper into the wet haven of her mouth and throat.

Buffy pressed her hips closer to the sweetly tormenting mouth, opening her thighs wider to accommodate the delving tongue. Relaxing the muscles of her throat, she took him more fully into her mouth, offering herself to the demon she hated and desired.

Angelus could feel his climax building, and debated whether to spill in her mouth. Tempting as it was, he instead pulled out, switched position again and knelt between her parted thighs. She looked at him questioningly, her expression not untinged by fear. He smiled, lifted her hips, and stretched out over her, penetrating her in one forceful thrust.

This time, she was so wet he slid in to the hilt with no resistance. He lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist, smiling when she obediently tightened them around him, drawing him in deeper yet. To reward her compliance, he set his fingers on her sensitive clit as he pistoned into her tight sheath.

His climax built again rapidly, and he could tell by her breathy moans that she kept pace with him. She wondered, he knew, why he hadn't forced her to take his seed into her mouth, but the truth was, he wanted her to spend sleepless nights worrying about when and how he would force her to complete the act. For now, he would take his release in a way that would humiliate her even as it would exalt her.

Buffy couldn't meet his eyes, not those soulless, empty pools where her love had once looked out at her. She closed her own eyes and pretended that it was her Angel inside her, bringing her to rapture because he loved her, not Angelus forcing her to climax because he loved tormenting her. Perhaps he would think the pleasure she found in him was too intense, and that she closed her eyes in ecstasy. It didn't matter. What mattered was living through this, living through whatever he did to her, until they could find a spell to restore him--

--or until she could find the courage to stake him.

He thrust harder, deeper, more quickly, his fingers stroking her in a loving, seductive rhythm that had the desired effect. Buffy was forced to her most intense orgasm of the evening, surging against him, her hips meeting the thrust of his, her sheath clamping hard around his prick. Angelus growled in satisfaction, burying his face against her neck, and even the terror that raced through her as she felt his face vamp out, felt the press of his fangs against her vulnerable jugular could not reduce the intensity of her climax. Thankfully he did not sink his fangs into her again, did not take her blood or her life. Instead, his own release took him, and he thrust into her harder yet, almost painfully hard, until he spilled his cold seed deep inside her.

He lay unmoving on her exhausted body, and Buffy was too drained by her repeated climaxes and the hours of terror to endure much more; when he made no move to leave her, she closed her eyes with a defeated sigh, and slipped into the forgetfulness of slumber.

The demon Angelus raised himself on his forearms and stared down at the incomparable beauty of the woman his banished soul had loved, and whom he himself craved even more than he craved living blood. He spent a quarter of an hour simply looking at her. Her cheeks were stained with tears, the skin beneath her eyes was bruised from exhaustion. Even in sleep, he could tell, she suffered. He smiled, his face returning to human, and dropped a kiss on her brow.

Maybe he was rushing things, he thought. Maybe he should let her sleep, let her wake up and wonder when he would return, what he would demand of her next. Maybe he should take his time with her, time which he had in abundance.

But then again, why should he delay his own gratification?

Feeling his passion for her rise anew, Angelus decided it was time to teach her a new facet of passion. He withdrew from her, checked the bonds on her wrists once more, then reached for one of her discarded pillows. She woke when he lifted her hips on the pillow. This time she knew who he was.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"This isn't the best position for what comes next," he told her, settling over her once more, raising her bound hands over her head, then letting his own hands caress her soft breasts once more. "But I want to be able to watch you. I like seeing you fight me, fight what I do to you...and lose."

She went pale, understanding all too well what he meant. His erection was already hard and forceful against her thigh. She shivered as he traced one of the long, strong fingers of his left hand down her ribs and belly, between her legs and into the cleft of her femininity. She knew she was wet for him, that she was drenching the intrusive finger. His smile broadened as he stroked slowly in and out of her tender sheath, abused from his earlier attentions and yet responsive to him. Then she shivered anew as he slid the finger out and slowly down, until he found the tight ring of flesh concealing the other portal to her body, and probed inside her.

Knowing that if she begged him to spare her this, she would only add to his enjoyment, Buffy forced herself to say nothing. Forcing herself to feel nothing was not so easily done. Her body instinctively clenched against the intrusion, increasing the discomfort she felt. There was no pain as yet, but she knew there would be.

And then Angelus began kissing her again, with the tenderness Angel had shown her, and Buffy tried to tell herself that it was indeed Angel whose mouth took her own. She couldn't fight him, so she yielded...and the discomfort eased. He deepened the kiss, then began the stroking motion that had felt so good inside her sheath. Amazingly, it began to feel good here, as well. Buffy responded, her mouth parting beneath his, her hips lifting to match the rhythm of his clever hands. Angelus pulled his finger out of the tight passage, and kept kissing her. Slowly he began to rock his hips against her own, stroking his manhood against the outer lips of her femininity, making her grow even more drenchingly wet.

Buffy stopped thinking. It was so much easier not to think. Her body became utterly pliant, utterly responsive. If she let her body follow his lead, she didn't have to think, she didn't have to fight, she didn't have to fear him.

She felt rapture build again, though slowly, distantly. He shifted his hips and she parted her thighs wider. When he cupped her buttocks in his hands, she lifted herself to accommodate him. But he lifted her higher than before, and not only lifted her, but parted her, then pressed against the forbidden portal. Almost before she realized that he was going to act, he pushed himself inside her.

She wasn't prepared for this. She had expected pain, discomfort at least, and humiliation. The very idea of this act was sordid.

But it didn't feel at all sordid. It felt appallingly, shockingly good. There was fullness and pressure, but no pain, and that made it that much harder to bear; a demon was forcing her to do things she didn't want to do, and he was making her enjoy them. Buffy moaned her despair, but his mouth was on hers and he swallowed the cry as if it were a delicacy to savor, and then, thrusting slowly, easily, he made her cry out again.

So good, so good. It wasn't fair that Angelus could make her so hot, so pliant. But he could and did, and she didn't have the will to fight him. Buffy began sobbing quietly; helpless, broken tears. He felt them again, tasted them on her skin, and it was like nectar to him. He kissed each tiny rivulet, kissed the lids of her eyes, savoring the taste of her despair. He gentled his movements further, and with his right hand, reached once more for her tender clit.

It was almost unbearable, feeling such intense pleasure in the arms of the demon that was all that remained of her beloved. But she didn't know how to stop her body from feeling rapture any more than she knew how to stop her heart from feeling the grief of Angel's loss.

But then, a treacherous thought came to her, perhaps she hadn't really lost him, after all.

Because Angelus, for all his threats, for all his menace, was making love to her, and had been, almost from the first. It wasn't pain he wanted from her, it was to bring her to climax, and if he had been ruthless in his first anger at her resistance, he had been tender as well. Gentle, when she had yielded.

As if Angel's love for her had been so strong, even the demon who wore his flesh was marked by it, subservient to it, knowingly or not.

That thought provided her with something to cling to.

Angelus shifted his hand slightly, so that first one finger and then another began to stroke inside her sheath, while his thumb continued to caress the pearl of flesh between her thighs. Buffy moaned against his mouth once more. Angelus thrust inside her again, and she brought her bound hands down, over his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him more deeply.

She had finally surrendered, and triumph burned in his cold unbeating heart, making the physical pleasure he took from her that much sweeter. Buffy was so tight and hot around him he knew he would spill in moments. But not before he made her reach a rapture that would appall her.

Angelus ruthlessly built her pleasure, his hands and fingers gentle, soothing on her ravished flesh. His mouth devoured her own, and she answered in kind. She was thrusting back against him, letting him come even deeper into her body, and her responsiveness thrilled him to his core. Demon that he was, merciless and unmoved by tender passions, he yet craved her compliance.

Because it was when she answered his passion with her own that it was the best, when he could force her to recognize that what was between them had little or nothing to do with the pathetic soul that had hag-ridden him for a century, and everything to do with flesh and lust and skill.

It was best when he could force her to crave the demon that animated the flesh. Angelus broke the kiss, so that he could look down into her passion-filled eyes when he made her come.

Buffy was drowning in sensation. Every nerve in her body burned for him, for her lover, for the beloved whose spirit, whose love for her, even compelled the actions of the demon that had become heir to his flesh. Angelus had stopped kissing her, and she opened her eyes to look up at him. That was what he had waited for. Wanting her to know who and what was giving her the ecstasy she craved, he vamped out, his fangs distended, his eyes yellow flames. Buffy met his gaze unflinchingly, and when he bent his head to hers once more, kissing her brutally, she did not turn her head away from his deadly mouth. She felt her own triumph; even the scourge of Europe, Angelus, the demon who had been the bane of Slayers for one hundred and fifty years, was not proof against the love emblazoned into every fiber of his being by the soul of Angel.

Buffy let go of her guilt and shame. If she were forced to stake Angelus, there would be no hope of her ever being reunited with Angel. This might be the last time she had him, or any part of him, in her arms. She would accept Angelus' tenderness, the rapture he gave her, as Angel's last gift for her.

Pleasure mounted inexorably, pulsing through her in overwhelming waves of sensation. But she could accept it, could welcome it, could savor the feel of Angelus' fangs against her bruised mouth because she loved Angel so much, and knew Angelus' obsession as proof that Angel had returned that love.

The climax he brought her to was unbelievably intense, the muscles in her rear much stronger, the contractions of her release far more compelling. Buffy accepted this, crying out against his mouth, lifting herself toward him, embracing him. Then she felt his own release overtake him, as he thrust inside her more strongly, spilling into her, intensifying her own pleasure even further.

But her heart broke, just a little bit more than it already had.

She fell asleep in his arms again. When she woke the next morning, she was dressed and unbound. She was a little stiff and sore from the exertions he had forced her to, but she knew her preternatural healing abilities would ensure that her discomfort was minimal. Maybe she had time for a quick, hot soak in the bathtub before school.

And then she found the drawing. A warning and a promise. Buffy shuddered. She had survived the night, but wasn't sure how many more nights like that she could endure. Nor could she share what had happened with her friends. This particular anguish went too deep. But she could show Giles the picture, and tell the others that Angelus had gotten into her room. They needn't know that he had done more than sketch her.

Maybe they could find a way of reversing the invitation into her home.

And maybe, some day, she could find a way to reverse the invitation into her heart…

Continued in Dance Solo

     Home               Fanfic           Feedback